The Lady in the Street

by Emmy Ellis

  “Can’t say I have,” Andy said. “The bread in my house isn’t sitting there long enough to get mouldy. It’s more at home in my belly.”

  She laughed and led him to the sandwich shop. Once she’d bought them ham salad baps and a carton of orange juice each, they returned to the car. Helena ate while staring at the back of a white Transit that was more beige than anything, given the amount of mud dust all over it. Someone had written in it: CLEAN ME, YOU LAZY BASTARD!

  A fist had been drawn with the middle finger sticking up.

  Charming.

  The late lunch over with, she headed to the address. Like so many in Smaltern, Zoe lived on one of the estates where the sea was a backdrop. The climb up the cliff road tested the engine, and Helena shifted into a higher gear to help it to the top. Rain pelted it down then, splashing on the windscreen. She clicked the wipers on and leant forward a bit so she could concentrate better. Visibility was quickly poor, and she drove past the recreation ground slowly. The wind picked up, jostling the car, and it seemed the remnants of the hurricane from another country was upon them at last.

  “Fuck it,” she said, turning into the estate.

  “Nasty gale,” Andy said, rooting out a Werther’s.

  “Hmm. We’re going to get soaked.”

  She parked at the kerb outside Zoe Jacks’ and waited it out for a minute or so. With no sign of the rain letting up, she muttered an obscenity, then got out with her jacket over her head and dashed to the blue front door. Andy appeared beside her, and Helena knocked, thinking it would need a fair few taps before Zoe Jacks heard them. She’d probably be out for the count, what with working nights.

  The woman must be a light sleeper, though. The door opened, and a thirtysomething stood staring at them, lilac fleece pyjamas on and black fluffy slippers. Then she glanced to one side at the weather.

  “Fucking hell,” she said, folding her hands over her stomach. “Look at that rain!”

  Try being outside in it…

  Helena smiled, feeling a right prat standing there beneath her jacket. She lowered it onto her body, shivering at the cold, wet dribble that sauntered down her back from the collar. ID out, she announced who they were and that they needed information on Felicity.

  “Come in,” Zoe said. “The bloody water’s getting on my mat.”

  Inside, the door closing out the horrendous downpour, Zoe walked into a room on the left. A kitchen, with modern, high-gloss units in white and a matching dining table and chairs. The light-blue worktop appliances broke up the blank canvas, as did a parrot, its colours vibrant.

  “Fack orf!” it said.

  Vibrant vocabulary, too.

  “Um, pardon the bird,” Zoe said. “My friend thought it would be funny to teach it to speak.”

  Andy guffawed, and Helena smiled. A bit of levity in this otherwise upsetting and frustrating day might be just what they needed.

  “Would you like a drink?” Zoe asked. “The coffee’s not long percolated.”

  Helena spied a full carafe and nodded. “That would be lovely, thanks.”

  “Sit down then,” Zoe said, sorting out the cups.

  Helena and Andy sat closest to the far wall, a Monet print hanging there proudly as though it wanted them to believe it was the real thing. Helena watched Zoe for signs of unease. There were none whatsoever, unless she was good at hiding things. Her fluid movements gave the idea she had no secrets—none the police needed to know about anyway. Her blonde hair was shoulder-length and a little tousled, as if she’d recently got out of bed, although she seemed too alert for Helena’s knock to have woken her, plus she’d been up long enough to brew coffee.

  “So what can I help you with about Felicity then?” she asked, bringing all three cups over then going back to get the Sweetex and little individual cream pots, the sort supplied in travel lodges and the like.

  Helena had seen them in B&M Bargains the week before last. Thirty-five pence a packet or something mad like that.

  Concentrate.

  Helena sorted her coffee out while Zoe sat, then stirred it and asked, “How well do you know her?”

  Zoe looked at the ceiling. “Christ, now there’s a question.” She lowered her gaze and stared directly at Helena, green eyes glinting with trustworthiness. “I know her well from school, but not really since leaving. We didn’t hang around with each other back then, and I didn’t want to start once school ended. And I say I knew her well, but what I meant was I know of her. Sorry, but she’s a bullshitter, and who wants to be mates with one of those?”

  Helena loved Zoe’s refreshing honesty, so she aimed to get more out of her. “What do you mean by bullshitter?”

  Zoe sipped then put her cup back down. “She lied a lot. To the point where we wondered what the next cock-and-bull story was going to be. Stupid things, as well, like saying she’d had a scrap with someone, but when we asked that someone about it, there hadn’t even been a scrap. It was like she said things to make herself look important or someone we ought to hang around with. It didn’t. She just looked a dick.”

  Andy choked on his coffee.

  “All right there?” Helena asked, holding back a smile.

  He nodded, so Helena resumed her questioning.

  “Do you remember if anyone got upset with her, either over the lies or anything else?” Helena drank a mouthful of coffee and almost said, “Mmm.”

  “Loads of people were pissed off at her. She did my head in. I swear, there was some form of crap coming out of her mouth every day. My old dear reckoned it was to make up for what had happened to her. She lost her mum and dad quite young, so maybe she was trying to get people to like her, so she had a family of sorts? I don’t know. But she had her gran, so she wasn’t totally alone.”

  Helena drank some more, hoping Zoe would babble into the silence.

  She didn’t.

  Bugger.

  “So if something terrible happened to Felicity, would you be surprised?” Helena asked.

  Zoe blinked and frowned. “What, like someone punched her, stuff like that? No, it wouldn’t surprise me. Unless she’s stopped the fibs, I can well imagine someone clocking her one. I remember when she used to walk towards us, we’d say, ‘Fucking Felicity’.”

  The parrot repeated it.

  Zoe got up and covered its cage with a tartan blanket. “Sorry.” She sat again and blew out a long breath. “Has something happened to her then? What, did she piss a bloke off?”

  “A woman,” Helena said.

  “Doesn’t shock me in the slightest.” Zoe shrugged.

  “Felicity was murdered last night.” Helena waited for that to sink in.

  Zoe’s mouth dropped open, and her cheeks flushed, as red as a baboon’s arse. “What?” Her eyelids fluttered as though she held back tears, but her eyes weren’t wet. “Who would go that far?” All the negativity shown towards Felicity seemed to dribble out of her, and she rubbed her temples, eyebrows scrunching. “I don’t get it.” She stared at the table for a while, then looked up. “I mean, I know I said what I said, but killing her?” She shook her head. “No, I can’t imagine anyone doing that. All right, Felicity is a bit of a silly cow, but… Why would anyone bump her off?”

  “That’s what we aim to find out,” Helena said. “Do you know of any women who would want to do this to her?”

  “No. Give her a mouthful, yes, but not that.” She picked her cup up, hand shaking. “I can’t get my head around this. I feel bad for talking that way about her now.”

  “Why? Just because someone’s dead, doesn’t mean your opinion should change.” Helena smiled to take the harshness out of her words. “Death doesn’t turn everyone into angels, you know, and you telling us what you did and how you feel helps us a lot. We’ve heard she wouldn’t hurt a fly, that she’s nice, but your take is different.”

  Zoe held up a hand. “Now hang on, I never said she’d hurt anyone or she wasn’t nice. She was just annoying as fuck, the silly bitch. Okay, she could have changed as
she grew up, but I don’t think a constant liar can stop doing it without help, do you?”

  “Or at least being extremely strong in wanting to change their behaviour,” Helena said. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I have no idea, but it was in the nightclub. I remember wondering why Becky still put up with her. Must have been about a couple of months ago maybe? I don’t see her at Talk Today if I can help it. She tends to use Janice’s office on a Monday evening, so I go straight into the main room for my overnight shift and rarely see her. Crap, does Janice know? She thinks the sun shines out of her arse.”

  “Yes, we’ve just been there. That’s where we got your address.” Helena took another sip of coffee, glanced at Andy’s cup to see how much he had left, then stood. “Thank you for your time.” She held out a hand.

  Zoe shook it somewhat awkwardly and rose. “I’ll ask around a few of my mates, see if they’ve heard anything about Felicity and who she might have naffed off, if you like.”

  “Actually, if you could give me their names and numbers, one of my team can ring them.”

  Zoe walked out of the room, then entered with her phone in hand. She wrote down numbers and names on a pad from a drawer then handed the sheet of paper over.

  “Thanks,” Helena said.

  As they made their way down the hall, the parrot shrieked, “Kill the bitch!”

  A shiver whispered up Helena’s spine. That damn bird had cobbled parts of their chat together and formed a sentence, that was all. Nothing to be creeped out about.

  Back at the station, damp from her dart to and from the car in the rain, she handed the note to Ol and asked her and Phil to split the names between them and call all of Zoe’s friends. She left them to it and, on the way to her office, was stopped short by Chief Yarworth calling her name.

  What did he want?

  She spun round, and he walked through the incident room towards her, chivvying her along until they reached her office. She went inside, and he followed, closing the door behind him. Helena strode to her desk then sat, wondering why he suddenly wanted to speak to her when he usually stayed holed up in his office and away from any ‘drama’ as he called cases.

  He settled on the chair opposite, crossed his legs, and leant an elbow on the armrest.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” she said.

  “Go out on a date with me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mum was drunk again, and he was just about sick of it. No one else’s mother seemed to need a bottle of Bacardi as a constant companion, but these days, she did. She weaved around the living room, the neck of the bottle held tightly, raising it to her mouth every so often then wincing while swallowing.

  Dad had left her a long time ago, and she had a boyfriend, one who expected him to do ‘little jobs’ he knew he shouldn’t do. Like stealing money from Mum’s purse or swiping the milk off the neighbour’s doorstep. Only old Mrs Ritterwald had a milk delivery now, everyone else getting four-pint flagons from Waitrose instead. Sometimes Ritterwald even had orange juice outside her door, and he nicked that and all but kept it for himself. A treat.

  “Eddie’s going to leave me,” Mum said. “Says I love the bottle more than him.”

  She loved the bottle more than anyone, even herself, but he didn’t say anything. He was fifteen now, going on fifty, or so it seemed. She was wearing thin.

  While she wittered on, he thought about the next job he had to do. It was bigger than usual, and scarier, but if he didn’t do it…

  Bad things always happened if you said no, that was what Eddie reckoned.

  Going to tea at Mark’s again would be great if he didn’t have to nick stuff. He’d been going once a month for years, and apart from Den being there, he enjoyed it. He could pretend he was part of their family, although he didn’t like Den.

  The old sod had said no to him, and the time would come when he’d pay for that.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d steal what Eddie had asked for, seeing as Den was always behind the counter. Eddie wanted fags, and lots of them, and the job was to grab as many packs of two hundred as he could and throw them out into the back area, where Eddie would be waiting behind the brick wall at the end of the yard to collect them.

  “I’m going to Mark’s now,” he said.

  Mum ignored him, staggering about and crying, her wails getting on his wick. Tears streaked her gaunt face, the once rounded, rosy cheeks a thing of the past. He sighed and left her to it. After all, she wouldn’t even notice he’d gone, nor would she care. Why couldn’t he have a mum who was interested in him? Why was he allowed to roam the streets alone, and when he came back in, he didn’t get an ear-bashing?

  He walked along, his mind a whirl of how things used to be and what they were like now. Once Dad had left and Mum relied on the drink to get her through, and Eddie had appeared to corrupt everything, life hadn’t been the same. He didn’t feel right inside himself most days, his happiness soured to spite, and Eddie’s threats scared him into behaving the way he did. People said he was weird, a nasty little shit, but Eddie said you needed to be a little shit in order to get things done in this world.

  Although Eddie was a bit of a mean git, he wanted to be like him.

  So he’d do whatever Eddie told him and learn the ropes.

  He trudged down the street where Den’s shop was, the path streaming with tourists, the air filled with the scent of sunscreen. Old sol beat down on his head, and it itched. He gave it a good scratch and squinted at all the happy families, everyone laughing or smiling, some of the kids scoffing ice creams, giving themselves white, pink, or chocolate moustaches, beards even. Would Mrs Simons have something nice for afters again like they had last time? Sticky toffee pudding and custard? Jam roly poly?

  His mouth watered, stomach griping—he hadn’t eaten a thing since a slice of toast this morning, and he’d had to pick the mould off the crust. He turned into Den’s, the shop packed with people grabbing sticks of rock, jars of brown-and-cream-striped humbugs, boxes of toffee, or browsing all the knickknacks they could take home to prove they’d had a family holiday. Something to brag about, wasn’t it? How they’d want to brag about Smaltern was anyone’s guess. He thought it was a shithole.

  This was the chance he needed to get the fags, while Den was busy watching everyone with his eagle eyes to see if people stole anything.

  A laugh burbled up at that, considering what he was about to do, and he scooted forward into the crowd, ducking to conceal his height, coming out the other side and dashing through the door marked PRIVATE. There were two more in the corridor that said the same, so he pushed one open and scanned all the storage boxes. Maltesers, Walkers, you name it, it was there. Farther along were the cigarettes, but before he grabbed any, he checked whether a key was in the back door.

  It was.

  He twisted it, shoved at the door, and propped it open with a small step ladder.

  Eddie was out there, peering over the high wall.

  Picking up a brown cardboard box labelled Superkings, he tossed it outside and kept going until the stack was gone. A noise in the corridor startled him, so he moved the ladder back, shut the door, and hid in the slot he’d created with the box removals.

  “What the bloody hell did I do with that?” Den said, the sound of his scuffing footsteps loud as he came in. “Ah, there it is.”

  Waiting to make sure Den had gone, he peered around the box tower to his right. With the coast clear, he left the storage room and went through the second doorway, knocking to be let into the flat above. Mrs Simons answered, beamed a great big smile, and ushered him in.

  “Can I have a drink?” he asked.

  “Of course you can. I’ve got some Coke as a treat. How’s that?”

  He smiled.

  Bad things wouldn’t happen to Mrs Simons.

  She hadn’t said no.

  Chapter Eight

  Helena just about held in her laughter and kept the incredulous expression off her face as
she stared across the desk at Yarworth. “A date?”

  Rain smacked on the window, providing a dramatic form of music for this shitshow.

  “Well, not exactly a date, more like as a companion,” Yarworth said.

  This was all a bit vague—and totally unexpected. And why use the word ‘date’? Had he done it to see what her reaction would be?

  “Um, Damien… Sir, this isn’t something I’m comfortable with. I’m seeing someone, and going out with you wouldn’t feel right. Unless it’s for work, the answer is a definite no.”

  “It is for work,” he said, giving her a smug smile.

  Fuck.

  “Sorry, but why would you call it a date then?” Was he intent on messing with her head or what? She’d had enough of men doing that to last a lifetime, thanks.

  He shifted his foot. “Figure of speech.”

  “What’s this all about?” She didn’t have time for him piss-arsing around. Why didn’t he just stay in his office and keep out of her face like he usually did?

  “We have a few people visiting from the Met, potentials who applied to work here, and I wanted you to meet them, give me a nudge if you think they’ll be any good.” He stared at her with hope in his eyes. “We have two places available, and seven have been interviewed today. I can’t seem to make up my mind, so I asked them out for a meal this evening to see how they fare in a more relaxed setting. What better way to get to know them than that?”

  Helena couldn’t think of anything dourer. Plus, she’d be letting Zach down, and they’d not long been a couple. She didn’t fancy messing it up before it had really begun. What was more important? Work or life? Because of Uthway, she knew the answer to that. “I’d rather not, sir. If it isn’t part of my job, then I don’t need to do it.”